


the eyes that are not here

by knightinbrightfeathers



Series: Magevengers [1]
Category: Fangirl - Rainbow Rowell, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Simon Snow series - Gemma T. Leslie
Genre: Depression, Friends to Lovers, Gen, I Blame Tumblr, IKEA Furniture, M/M, Mild Language, Nightmares, Penny Carter, Time Skips, there will be more Penny later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 11:33:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4220112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightinbrightfeathers/pseuds/knightinbrightfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon Snow died in 1944 killing the Insidious Humdrum, along with his close friend Tyrannus Basilton Pitch. Watford was left in ruins, and the World of Mages exposed to the gandry world.<br/>It's 2014, and Simon is alive, Baz is dead, and he still isn't in charge of his own life. SWORD gives Simon a suit and a job-but he'll be damned if he'll become a superhero.<br/>It happens anyways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the eyes that are not here

**Author's Note:**

> Well.  
> Just when you thought it couldn't be gayer... Or bi-er, I suppose. Or weirder, that's good too.
> 
> Do Not Try This At Home:  
> -hiding important stuff from your therapist  
> -being dismissive about your health (physical and mental)  
> -following orders blindly  
> -causing extinction to a species  
> -getting shot at  
> -remaining ignorant about your financial matters  
> -killing people  
> -eating cafeteria food  
> -letting your boss run your life completely, down to assigning you a BFF
> 
> Simon is not mentally healthy. The only upside of the whole thing is that he's not closeted anymore, except no one apart from Agatha knows, so he kind of is, I guess? The closet sucks, let me tell you. So, yeah, he's depressed, just like Steve Rogers, and he's going to get better, unlike Steve Rogers. Please, Marvel, all I want for Hannukah is Steve to be happy, healthy, and openly bi and dating Sam. (In this 'verse, Simon does not date the Sam Wilson equivalent. Sorry. Neither does he have the same issues as Steve does.)
> 
> Apart from that, I'd like to apologize for turning Peggy/Penny Carter into a minor character, because Peggy is awesome and kickass and amazingly characterized and Hayley Atwell is a treasure. Also, she was a chubby child, so the crossover fits perfectly.

The last thing Simon remembered-

"I'm coming with you!" Baz shouted. He wasn't even a little out of breath, even though they were in the middle of a battlefield and running, dodging spells and tripping over bodies.

"No, I have to do this alone!" They rounded the corner of Watford's left wing. It felt like slamming into a wall, but they kept going, nearer and nearer to the center of the spreading numbness, the deadened air, the silence that hurt Simon's ears.

"You never have to do it alone, you prat," Baz said. He looked fierce, ready to take on the world, and despite himself Simon found himself nodding.

"Just keep up," he said.

Baz snorted. "Oh yes, so difficult."

"On the count of three," Simon said, holding the Mage's Sword out in front of him like Baz was holding his wand. The dead air pulled against the motion, making his arm tremble. "One-" He started running.

"Fucking- goddamnit, Snow!" Baz shouted. He caught up with Simon, panting now, and they pushed on, running through treacle, through a vacuum with nothing to push against, and Simon could hear Baz echoing him, almost word for word- "By bone and blood, by iron and wood-" and the Humdrum was right there, smiling, singing, mocking them- "ashes, ashes-" and then-

Baz had always liked poetry.

Not with a bang, but with a whimper.

\-- - --

Simon woke up in the infirmary. His mouth tasted of dirt and greenery, and he ached down to his bones, deep and strange. The curtains around the bed brushed against his skin and he shivered, hypersensitive as if from a fever.

The curtains were the same threadbare blue ones the Watford infirmary had boasted since Simon's first year, and the bed was just as uncomfortable as it always was.

Apart from that, it was all wrong.

The smell wasn't the pine-and-lemon scent of the infirmary at Watford, nor the copper-and-smoke of the battlefield. The silence, too, no birdsong or speech, and no breathing. No screams. It made no sense that the infirmary was empty, after that awful battle.

Simon sat up, wincing, and swung his legs off the bed. He pushed the curtain aside. The room was too empty and too clean. It looked newly made, and Simon would bet a week's worth of laundry duty that the bed to the right of the door didn't have a thesaurus of swearwords carved into it. He hobbled to the door and eased it open. It didn't creak, another sign that something was very off.

The uniformed guards standing just outside in the brightly lit hall were a definite clue, as well.

"Sir, please get back in bed," one of them said.

"Yeah, this definitely isn't Watford," Simon said. "I want answers."

"Sir-"

"Where am I? Why am I here? How did I get here? Why am I in my underclothes? Where is everyone else?" Simon felt panic rising in his throat. _Calm down, breathe, just like Baz taught you-_ oh shit. "Where is he?"

"Who?" asked the second guard as the first one said, "Get back into the room, sir-" and Simon scowled and took a step forward and the guards drew pistols on him.

Simon put a hand to his hip, grasping thin air, and felt all his pain intensify, like breaking his arm a hundred times over, and then disappear. Energized, Simon felt his hand close over the Mage's Sword.

"What the hell," the first guard said, and pressed a box on his belt. "This is Wu, we've got a situation here. Winter is early-" and shut up when Simon hit him over the head with the Sword's pommel. He dropped the other guard too, and took off along the corridor. Somewhere in the distance, an alarm blared. Simon ignored it and kept on running, bursting into another corridor, this one with people in it. He felt his face burn but kept going, blocking out the yelling all around him. Only a few hours ago, he'd been doing just this, except he'd been covered in blood and sweat. At least, he thought it had been a few hours ago. Who knew how many days he'd been asleep. He could feel itchy stubble on his jaw, and he'd never really been able to grow any.

He's just reached the street, loud and there were so many cars, and there were so many people and he was in pajama trousers and an undershirt, how embarrassing. He wasn't even wearing shoes. Baz would be horrified. _Baz._

"Mr. Snow," a man said, and Simon whirled. "Please calm down."

"Where is he?" Simon demanded.

The man hesitated. He was black and wore an eyepatch, like the world's most put-upon-looking pirate. "The Insidious Humdrum was destroyed."

Simon stared at the man, shoulders slumping. He let go of the Sword, which disappeared before it hit the ground. He didn't ask anything else. Whatever had happened, Baz was gone.

\-- - --

It had been longer than a few days. Somewhere in between medical checkups (his blood in too many test tubes, someone in a lab coat peering at it curiously) and the psych evaluations (the man looked almost ashamed, asking him if he felt unusually upset) and the careful, slow talks about moon landings and the Middle East and television (as if Simon was stupid), a woman dressed in the same blue uniform as everyone else handed him a thin folder and explained what had happened, while one the men standing behind her periodically glanced at his watch. Simon listened through ringing ears and managed to understand that no one really knew. He'd been found by a government-funded expedition into the ruins of Watford, buried under rubble and dirt, the only spot in miles not overgrown with strange, glowy plants. The folder held photos, and Simon spent more time wondering at the bright colors than at the process of his recovering from the earth. When he did focus, his own pale face looked too old. He handed the folder back and scrubbed a hand over his jaw. They'd let him shower and shave and change, but his hair hadn't been cut, and it had grown during the past 70 years. _He_ had grown. It was frightening, because in this strange unrecognizable place, Simon should at least have been able to recognize himself.

\-- - --

The future, or rather, the present, was immeasurably different. The technology was weird, but machines had always been alien to him, and the laws and politics were different, but without Baz to explain, he found he didn't care.

No, what hit him most, the thing that his life had been drenched in and was now so changed, was the magic. The specialist that had him summon the Sword and wield it was so excited and invested that she barely even noticed that she was answering his questions. Her answers, practically stream of consciousness, were a welcome respite from the reserved words everyone else used around him, as if he were slow or fragile.

"No one uses instruments, you see, and the Mage's Sword is legendary! The best specimen we could ask for- isn't it, Fitz?”

"Like Christmas," her partner agreed, poking the Sword with something that went 'ping'.

"So if no one uses instruments anymore..." Simon prompted.

"Oh, you know. Natural talents and all. Most people can't even light a candle or turn water into jelly or what have you, but a few have some truly astounding powers! Or frightening, I suppose. It's all very random, but I'm working on a paper..."

"It's not random, Simmons," Fitz said. "It's scientific. Chaotic, but we can track the progress of magical powers through gene pools-"

"Yes, and we can work with it now," Simmons said, smiling distractedly at Simon's neck, where she'd pressed a thing that buzzed. "Dr. Morse's work is inspiring."

"You just have a science crush," Fitz said, and Simmons swatted at him.

These people were just a few years older than him, Simon realized. Or rather, his age. He stared down at feet that were further away than they had been when he'd last gone to sleep. "Um, do you know why I grew? Uh, underground?"

"Magical radiation," Fitz said absently. "Like all the roses and things. Brought the vegetable garden up a treat. Looks like Chernobyl. Say, what's the pattern on the hilt for, d'you know?"

"For making it easier to hold?" Simon hazarded. He flinched when Simmons stuck a needle into his arm.

"Sorry," she muttered, turning to what one of the interchangeable people in dark blue uniform had explained was a computer. It was all very confusing, and Simon wanted to go to sleep and wake up seventy years ago.

\-- - --

The organization that was manhandling him was called SWORD, oddly enough. The eyepatch man was the Director, named Fury. Baz would have laughed, probably. Simon just wanted everything to go away.

"We're appointing a caretaker for you," Director Fury said.

Simon's caretaker was gorgeous, slender and tall with an almost fragile look to her. She was also scary as fuck-all. Every time she turned that innocent, sweet gaze on him he wanted to back away, but she'd probably kill him if he ran. She wouldn't even break a sweat.

"I'm so sorry that you got saddled with me," Simon blurted the moment they were alone. "I'll do my best to assimilate into modern society or whatever bull it is I have to do fast as I can and you can go back to taking people out with two toothpicks and a jelly baby."

"What makes you think I kill people with jelly babies?" Agatha asked.

Simon shrugged. "I dunno, I like jelly babies."

"You're very nonchalant in the face of someone you seem to think is a master assassin," Agatha said, and nodded. "I think we'll get along fine."

\-- - --

SWORD living quarters were impersonal as hell, wore than the Watford dorms on that first confusing day at school. Simon accepted the card that served as his key without a word. Bland and cramped as the room was- he'd been big in Watford and he was bigger now that he'd shot up like a magically fertilized tomato- they were a refuge from the overwhelming world just outside the door. Anyways, he didn't have a penny to his name. SWORD was doing him a favor by not kicking him to the kerb.

The small closet was full of blue uniforms, all the same size, all just a little wrong fitting. There was a schedule on a screen set into the door, telling him that dinner, for the present in his living quarters, was in thirty minutes. Simon wondered what Baz would have said about the room. No, he already knew. Baz would glance pointedly at the schedule and ask him how long he was going to let someone control his every move.

"I know," Simon murmured. They were probably watching him somehow, but he didn't care.

\-- - --

**1939**

"Wanna skip first period?" Baz asked. He was lying on his back in bed, legs dangling off the edge, tossing and catching a ball casually. Simon felt a little envious. Every time he played around inside, he broke something.

"I can't," he said. "You know I'm no good at maths."

"It's just third year geometry. I'll teach you. Come on, we'll go down to the kitchens." Baz sat up and smiled persuasively. "I'll convince Winnie to slip us cake."

Cake was very tempting, but Simon shook his head. "We'll get in trouble."

"It's just one class!" Baz wheedled. "Who are you afraid of? Professor Benedict? He wouldn't notice if you replaced the entire class with bits of rock."

"'M not afraid of Professor Benedict."

Baz's face shut down. "Right.”

“I'm _not_ ," Simon insisted.

"No, you're just afraid of the Mage. He's just the headmaster, you know, not the King. 'S'not even his job to bother about your attendance."

Simon shrugged. "Maybe he does cause no one else will." Except Simon wasn't the only orphan in Watford. Sometimes... but that was just a silly hop. Simon turned away. "We're gonna be late."

Baz sighed. A moment later he slung an arm over Simon's shoulders. "You know they won't _actually_ kick you out of school if you fail maths, right?"

"Yeah, yeah. Come on, git."

"Prat."

\-- - --

The "internet" was an entire three hour lecture with Fitz babbling at full speed before passing him off for another hour of sitting with an exceptionally helpful and nice SWORD agent who explained Google and warned him about Wikipedia. Under her amused supervision, he looked up caretaker, just to see if the description had changed drastically since the 1940s, but it seemed that Agatha just had a very relaxed and unique approach to the job.

At first she just checked on him very few days, quizzing him on bizarre trivia and dumping junk food on his bed. That turned into popping up in the middle of physical training or when he was on his way to a psych session. The surprise visits turned into softcore kidnapping, which meant that he found himself spending half days wandering around London and meeting bicycle repair people or making conversation with med students while Agatha spoke in Hungarian with their patients.

Today's day trip was the first one of the week, and it was already Thursday. Agatha had joined him, silent as always, on his way to what the pretty young agent called "Normal People Training", and said, "Come on."

"Skye will be pissed," Simon said.

Agatha rolled her eyes. "Skye can go flirt with Simmons."

Simon gaped at her.

" _Please_ don't tell me they left LGBT reform out of your _glupyy_ lessons," Agatha muttered. "Oblivious _debily_." She wrapped a hand around his wrist and towed him, with not-really-very-surprising force, in the opposite direction from Skye's cluttered lab.

They left the building in a little aircraft that looked like a cross between a plane and a helicopter and was too small for Simon. They landed in the middle of nowhere, the same kind of middle of nowhere that Watford had occupied, green and grey and brown and wild. Simon felt deja vu hit hard when he rounded the aircraft- Agatha muttered something in French and kicked it- and saw the big building surrounded by gardens. A few seconds later, the deja vu faded, and Simon found himself staring at a building so well designed and so modern looking that any likeness to Watford was pure coincidence.

"The Academy," Agatha said, pronouncing the capital letter with an indecipherable twist to her mouth. "Every weirdo agent who's tried to teach you how to use a smartphone the past couple of months started out here."

"Even you?" Simon asked, following her as she picked a path through the tall grass. He had a hard time imagining her as a newbie.

"Have I ever tried to teach you how to use a smartphone?" Agatha asked, not really answering his question. She was a mystery inside an enigma, wrapped in sarcasm and a thing for gross American candy bars.

The Academy, closer up, was teeming with life. They got a few curious looks, but no more than Simon got at SWORD HQ. He picked up on fragments of conversation, half focused on the new surroundings and half on Agatha's retreating back.

"-tried reverse engineering but it just sparkled at me-"

"-shut up, Nico, the comics aren't better-"

"-I told Graziella but she said the budget-"

"-whole point is _not_ blowing it up, Christ."

Agatha's destination was, thankfully, quiet and empty, a room full of windows and hip-high walls and displays, like a museum.

"SWORD likes reminding people of its past," Agatha said, giving him a meaningful look, which, no, Simon had no idea what she meant. "I haven't been here since I was recruited." She stepped towards the first display, a large photo of a dark haired woman hanging over a glass case containing a purple ring. "Did you know her?"

Simon shook his head. "I don't think so-" But Agatha was gone.

SWORD, Simon learned, had been founded by Penelope "Penny" Carter, who had been a pupil at Watford and had participated in the battle against the Humdrum- the "Battle of Watford". Carter had been an outstanding student, both academically and socially. She'd been disgusted and horrified when the destruction of Watford led to the uncovering of secrets no one had known about, among them the violent training, isolation and psychological abuse that Simon Snow, the Mage's Heir, had endured in the name of defeating the Insidious Humdrum. SWORD had been her way to ensure that the World of Mages changed its attitude toward magic and magical people.

Simon backed away from the sign he'd been reading. Above it hung two banners, one showing Carter and a few other people, obviously in the middle of a discussion. Carter was gesturing at something, wearing a construction worker's hat against a backdrop of building struts. The others, all men in somber suits, were clearly listening attentively. This version of Carter was the youngest he'd seen yet, and she looked vaguely familiar. Simon remembered a perfectly ordered ponytail, a stubborn voice, an attempt to help him with rudimentary spellwork before _No, no, my dear boy, it’s best you stay away from anyone you might endanger_ and the guilt every time he talked to somebody. So he'd stopped talking with anyone unless he couldn't help it, apart from Baz.

The other banner was a photo of him, in seventh year, maybe, sitting at Baz's desk and smiling faintly. Baz must have taken it. He'd gotten a camera for his birthday in sixth year. Someone had gone through Baz's things to get the photo. They must have gone through his things too, rummaged through his meagre possessions, his old harmonica and the half empty jar of Vaseline. Simon flushed and turned his back, walking towards the far end of the room.

The exhibit culminated in a marble wall, pale and smooth except for the words engraved in it. Names upon names, Marvins and Normas, Janes and Ronalds. Simon read them all until he reached his own name, _Simon Oliver Snow_ in stone that couldn't be altered, and under it _Tyrannus Basilton Pitch III._ He covered Baz's name with a hand and imagined another hand, pale with long fingers and too-short fingernails, covering his own name.

"This is the memorial to the fallen at Watford," Agatha said softly. Simon jumped. "The memorial to all of SWORD's fallen is in the gardens.”

Simon nodded and dropped his hand to his side.

"You didn't know Director Carter, did you," Agatha said. It wasn't a question. Simon's story was part of the exhibit. Hell, it was probably in history books. "Tyrannus Basilton Pitch the Third..."

"Baz," Simon began. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Baz was my roommate."

"Roommate, or roommate?"

"It's none of your goddamn business," Simon snapped. He froze and glanced at her.

"I know," Agatha said, not looking at him.

Simon relaxed, just a little bit. "We were..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "You said, before..."

"Sent you an email. I'm not really the world expert on gay rights. You would have said queer-"

"Mostly I would've said 'fuck off you prick'," Simon said, and reddened. "Pardon my French."

" _Absolument pas,_ " Agatha said lightly. She nudged him. "Let's go get ice cream."

"Is ice cream supposed to make me feel better?" Simon asked, as they crossed the gallery. He avoided looking at anything.

"I want ice cream," Agatha said, sticking her nose in the air and ignoring the incredulous look a passing white haired man in a suit gave her.

\-- - --

Simon didn't see Agatha for a long time after that. She'd given him a lot to think about, though. He was so busy with the contents of his own head- Baz would have teased him, _not much to entertain you in there_ \- that he barely noticed.

He did notice when Director Fury called him to his office and told him, "You're ready to go on missions."

Simon swallowed. His throat was completely dry. "Missions? What kind of missions? Sir," he added belatedly.

Director Fury spared him an unimpressed look. "What do you think SWORD does?"

What SWORD did, apparently, was monitor the World of Mages, and intervene when it had to. Back in Simon's time, six months or seventy years ago, the World of Mages had been tiny and secretive. Nowadays, magic was part of life, which meant it was abused just as much as guns and money were. Which meant-

"Hello," Agatha said, appearing beside him on the ramp currently being used to load tactical equipment into a mission hovercraft. One of the agents dropped a crate on her foot and swore loudly. "How's tricks?"

Simon tried to be as calm and unruffled as she was, but the return of one of the only people he actually liked was too good for him to play cool. He grinned at her, and someone else dropped a bulletproof vest. "Hey, Agatha. The email was really useful. I tried to write you back, but it bounced."

"Life of a superspy," Agatha said. "All that spam, really blocks the inbox."

"Superspy?"

Agatha rolled her eyes with far more drama than was actually necessary. "No, Snow, I'm actually a professional babysitter. Want me to hold your hand while we rescue the kidnapped civilian children from the jinxed preschool?"

"It's not jinxed, it's cursed. They're completely different things," Simon said. He could hear himself adopting Baz's posh accent ever so slightly.

"Whatever," Agatha said, and strode off into the hovercraft. Simon hurried after her. Agatha was much too good at putting up a facade for him to be sure, but he had the feeling she was a little worried.

The mission went off without a hitch. Simon felt superfluous, and the wide eyed recognition he got from the preschool teachers only made him feel awkward. He handed over the last trembling toddler and walked over to where Agatha was standing, staring at a bunch off crayon drawings stuck to a classroom wall. She said nothing for a while, then said, "These are really ugly. I'm probably supposed to think they're charming, but they're just bad."

"Yeah," Simon said. One of the drawings was a riot of scribbles in every color, overlaid by a thick grey circle. "They are."

Agatha nodded once, decisively. "You're all right, Snow."

"Do I get ice cream again?"

"I don't know, what's the cafeteria serving today?"

Simon groaned. "Please, no, I'm tired of eating pasta in my room."

"First of all, that vile yellow stuff is not pasta." Agatha shot him a sharp glance. "Second, you know you can leave your room, right?"

"The schedule-" Simon began. He stopped at Agatha's headshake.

"If you're on missions, you're a member of SWORD and have the right to live like an actual human being and not someone's hamster." She muttered something under her breath that sounded disbelieving and also in Hebrew. Simon caught Fury's name.

Simon's comms crackled, and Agent Blum said, "We're leaving in five. Agent Wellbelove, if you've got something to say to the director-"

"That would be lovely," Agatha said, for all the world as if she were commenting on a trip to the seaside. "We're coming."

\-- - --

Simon had no idea what Agatha had said to Director Fury, but his life took a decided turn for the better after that mission. He no longer had to eat in the quarantine of his own room (although eating alone in the cafeteria wasn't that big an improvement), no longer had to take "welcome to 2015, let's catch you up on internet and The Beatles" classes (Skye's opinion on The Beatles was a picture of a loaf of bread), and started getting treated like an actual agent. He still felt superfluous, like a child being humored, but his training payed off. People started actually listening to him, considering his suggestions, as if he were part of their team.

If the missions gave him nightmares, well, that was nobody's business, not even the therapist's, even though Simon was sure he saw right through him.

\-- - --

**1943**

"Simon," someone said, and shook him awake.

Simon shot up with a gasp and smacked his forehead against Baz's.

"Fuck," Baz said. He rubbed his head. "Your head is bloody hard."

"Sorry," Simon said hoarsely. "I- sorry."

"What're you apologizing for? I woke you up." Baz stopped rubbing his forehead and reached out to take Simon's hand, index and middle finger on the pulse point in his wrist. "Your heart's like a rabbit. You're clammy." He looked into Simon's face concernedly. "You're a bit pale, too-"

"Pot, kettle," Simon said. "Did I wake you up?"

Baz shook his head. "Couldn't sleep." They sat there for a while in silence. "Was it nightmares again, love?"

"Yeah." Simon closed his eyes and leaned his head against Baz's shoulder, sore forehead against Baz's collarbone. "The dragon eggs, this time."

"You need to tell him that you can't do these missions anymore." Baz stroked Simon's hair.

"'M all sweaty," Simon murmured.

"I don't care. Seriously, Simon, listen to me. These stupid quests, and the training sessions, and all the things you can't tell me about- you're getting hurt."

"I can take it."

"That's not the point." Baz sighed, frustrated. "I know you can."

"One day," Simon said, lifting his head and looking Baz in the eye, "I'll have to defeat the Humdrum. I have to be ready."

Baz sighed, softly this time, and kissed Simon's temple. Simon tilted his head to catch Baz's mouth, but Baz drew away. "You'll taste horrible."

"So's your face," Simon retorted.

"Pot, kettle," Baz mimicked. He crawled across the tousled covers and laid his head against the pillow. "Come on, bed time."

They settled under the covers, sprawled over each other in a mess of limbs.

"Your feet are cold," Simon said into Baz's hair.

"Well, _I'm_ going to wake up with drool in my hair tomorrow, so you'll just have to put up with it."

When Simon fell asleep, he dreamed, again, of the Mage standing over him. "Dragon eggs can be used to enhance power, or to induce lack of control in a magician. They can destroy an instrument." He waved at the Sword in Simon's hands. "Bu the Mage's Sword is unique."

"Yes, sir," Simon said. "But aren't the dragon babies-"

"They would hatch into monsters that terrorize the land," the Mage said. He laid a hand on Simon's shoulder. "They would kill innocents. The dragons no longer follow the ancient pact of St. George."

 _More like murderous blackmail,_ Baz's voice echoed in Simon's mind. "Yes, sir," he said, and raised the Sword high over the first beautiful, luminous egg.

\-- - --

Simon scrubbed a hand over his face. It came off slimy, glittery goop and dried blood smeared across his palm. He'd barely been cleared by medical when a gangly agent who looked straight out of high school ( _like me, like me,_ chanted the inner voice that he'd become so good at ignoring) ran up, panting, and blurted, "Director Fury wants you in his office," and the doctor patching him up had scraped off a lump of glitter into a petri dish and told him to hurry. Apparently, being the Mage's Heir- the media had dubbed him "Mage Snow", and Agatha took enormous pleasure in sending him links to fansites- paled when confronted with Director Fury's will.

Said scary head of SWORD gave him a look that could have passed as sympathetic in poor light. "You look like shit, Snow."

"I was in medical," Simon said flatly.

"And I told Agent Horowitz it wasn't urgent." Fury opened a desk drawer and tossed something at Simon, who caught it instinctively.

"Coulson's Blood, Gunpowder, Fairy Dust, and Lipstick Removal Wipes?" Simon read.

"Good stuff. Unlike Coulson's sense of humor," Fury said, and Simon cracked a smile.

The wipe made quick work of the muck on his face, although it stung on the tiny scratches all over his cheek. They'd heal within the hour, though, so Simon ignored it. "Thanks."

Director Fury nodded. "I called you here because I've got good news. I talked to Dr. Garner and he said you're ready for the real world, so you're moving out of SWORD quarters."

Simon started. "My therapist said I was ready?"

"As ready as you'll ever be. We've set you up in a flat, not too far, quiet. We’ve already put defenses up, of course."

"Um," Simon said, drawing a blank. "The... rent...?"

"Covered by SWORD," Director Fury said. "Agent Wellbelove will help you pack."

\-- - --

"What kind of knock-brained ninny declares me fit for normal human company?" Simon muttered, dropping his duffel on the floor of his new living room. It was already furnished, like something out of the IKEA catalogue Skye had shown him.

"Garner's good. The best. If he thinks you're ready, you're probably not going to burn down the building on a whim." Agatha shrugged. "Nobody said anything about perfect mental health, just confirming to the SWORD checklist."

"Merlin," Simon said. "There's a checklist."

Agatha snorted, like _of course_ there was a checklist, what kind of idiot was he? "Come on, dump your garbage in the bedroom dresser and let's go."

"How'd you know there was a dresser?" Simon asked, when he saw the bedroom.

"IKEA catalogue," Agatha called from the living room. "Move it, Snow, we're going shopping."

"For what, and with what money?" Simon asked, emerging from his Årstid-model bedroom.

"Clothes. You can't walk around in SWORD uniform, you'll look like a prick. As for the money, you do realize you have a bank account, right?"

Simon looked at her helplessly.

"You don't. You don't know." Agatha sighed and hiked her bag onto her shoulder. "Come on, we'll make a pitstop."

\-- - --

"I have _what?_ " Simon stood up. "I think I need some air."

"He'll be fine," Agatha reassured the bank clerk, who was blinking in the aftermath of Simon's outburst. "I'll go fetch him."

\-- - --

"That's so much money, Agatha." Simon shook his head. "I didn't know I had an inheritance. I didn't even know SWORD was paying me wages."

"Fury insisted on it," Agatha said. "Do you need another minute, or do you think you can come inside and apologize to the poor guy?"

"Apologize," Simon said immediately.

\-- - --

"We'll take it," Agatha said approvingly. "You look good."

Simon fidgeted. "Are these trousers supposed to be so tight?"

"Yes," Agatha said firmly. "You're doing Britain a favor. Now, go inside and try on the black jeans. And one of the t-shirts."

At the next store, an attendant walked up to them. "May I help you?"

"Oh, yes. My brother has the worst taste, honestly," Agatha said, throwing Simon a fondly exasperated look and transforming before his very eyes into a completely different person. "He needs a jacket, and a coat for the winter."

"I have just the thing," the shop attendant said, smiling a perfectly lipsticked smile and hurrying away.

"Brother?" Simon asked quietly.

"Well, you're gay, aren't you," Agatha said. "I didn't want to make you uncomfortable."

"I'm bisexual," Simon said. "But thanks."

"Well then, I'm sure you still have a chance," Agatha said, smirking and glancing pointedly at the shop attendant clacking across the floor towards them.

"Aggie, no," Simon said, a little too loudly, and Agatha laughed.

"Simy," she said teasingly. "Baby bro. Kiddo."

"Please stop," Simon begged.

"Never," Agatha said. "You started it."

It turned out that Agatha had an endless supply of nicknames. And puns. And bad jokes. Simon winced his way through the shopping trip, but it made it much more bearable. Agatha, as put-together in jeans and a big sweater as in her black mission clothes, looked and acted as if she belonged among the passerby, and Simon felt as if he might, too.

\-- - --

"I don't need a uniform," Simon said. "I already have one."

"The SWORD uniform," the extremely forgettable agent in front of him said. He was so forgettable that Simon had already forgotten his name. It might have been spell induced, might not. The man was worrying in a way that suggested he wasn’t entirely human, or entirely anything really.

"It's comfortable and practical," Simon says, ticking the points off on his fingers. It was a little bit of a lie, actually, because his uniform was too tight around the shoulders and too loose around the middle, but he had a belt and his trousers hadn't fallen off yet. "It's anonymous, and it's also, and this is my favorite part about it, actually, not white and gold spandex!"

Behind him, Agatha let out a quiet snort.

"As the Mage," Mr. Agent said, and Simon cringed, "you can't remain an anonymous figure like SWORD's usual employees. You're a national hero and a legend. You have to stand out."

"I'll get shot," Simon ground out.

"The fabric is bulletproof, like lightweight Kevlar. It's not actually spandex." Mr. Agent looked pleased with himself, as if getting shot at was perfectly okay if you just didn't die.

"Why don't I just carry around a target? I'll hold it up high and hire one of those people who write in the sky with planes-"

"Sky writers," Agatha murmured. Mr. Agent gave her a look.

"-sky writers to write 'just fucking shoot me'. Sir."

"I see," Mr. Agent said. "What would be more acceptable?"

"No gold. No spandex. No capes," Simon added hastily, because Skye had made him watch The Incredibles "for educational purposes". "White is okay, but not that much. I get shot at enough as it is. And I want to be able to use my bits afterwards."

Mr. Agent raised an eyebrow. "Bits?"

"It's very tight in the crotch area is what he means," Agatha said. She toyed with a tiny knife, polished mirror-bright, throwing spots of light against the walls.

Simon blushed rosy red. "I'm not a _superhero._ "

Mr. Agent stood there for a while, face impassive, before nodding and closing the PDF of the uniform design. "I can make no promises, but I'll do my best. And like it or not, Mr. Snow," he said, tucking the tablet under his arm, "you _are_ a hero."

"He's a fan," Agatha said after Mr. Agent left. "Collects all those vaguely misguided comics and cards and things they made about you way back when."

"He _does?_ "

"Yep," Agatha said, popping the 'p' and stashing her knife somewhere. "Also, do my best, my ass. Coulson designed half that uniform."

"Who?" Simon asked.

Agatha rolled her eyes. "Forget it, Sleeping Beauty."

\-- - --

The uniform in its final form was still rather horrible, conspicuous in a whole new way. It had a sword belt and altogether looked like someone took inspiration from knight armor. And an antique shop. And someone's posh study, the kind with green velvet drapes.

"You'll get used to it," Agatha said. She slapped at Simon's hand. He'd been picking at one of the metallic bits. They could be called bronze if you were feeling generous. Simon wasn't.

"Your uniform's black," Simon grumbled.

"It’s a catsuit," Agatha said. "Trade you."

"I think all of the stabby things you stash in it would hurt."

"They're called knives," Agatha said, enunciating slowly. "Say it with me, Simon. Knives."

"They're not just knives," Simon said, just as slowly. "And I'm not _stupid_."

"I know," Agatha said. "Or I never would've bothered teaching you anything."

"You didn't teach me anything!"

"Didn't I?" Agatha shrugged. "Could've fooled me."

\-- - --

When Simon first did an op in his brand new brown-white-and-definitely-not-gold-honest-to-god getup, no one said a thing. They just left him a little more alone, treated him a little more like an officer, and, without Agatha to be prickly and difficult like she always was before an op kicked off, he felt the weight settling on his shoulders again. It felt like responsibility, and loneliness, and loss. It weighed like a hill of earth.

\-- - --

Cons of the suit (Simon called it that because it sounded better than costume and the ugly thing was definitely not a uniform, but he still wasn't a _superhero_ , okay): people shot at him a lot more, it wasn't machine washable, and Agatha sent him dozens of embarrassing magazine articles, many of which described his bum in loving and slightly hysterical detail.

Pros of the suit: his team got shot at less, it didn't stain, tear or let the bullets in, and it fit.

Less obvious, and probably unintentional, advantage of the suit: it made him invisible.

Not actually invisible, like a 'now you see it, now you don't', but after the first few times he wore it, no one stared at him, and soon enough he was ignored even more than he had been before. No one gave him a second glance, not even when he walked right up to the door to the archives and asked to go in.

Someone in SWORD uniform would've needed a pass. The Mage in his suit with his sword hanging from his belt could walk right in, smiling politely and thanking whoever designed the fabric that no one could see how badly he was sweating. It turned out that Agatha _had_ taught him something. If you acted like you belonged, people believed you.

SWORD was all computerized these days, but no one had bothered uploading all the old paper files. They also never threw away anything, so the archives were huge. Concert hall huge. Football stadium huge.

Simon stared at the dimly lit room, which was definitely bigger on the inside, and sighed. He drew the Sword. "Teach light to counterfeit a gloom."

The spell, miraculously, worked. Maybe FitzSimmons had been right about the wand thing. Simon followed the little orb he'd conjured to the very back of the room. A few times he spotted something moving, or heard a strange sound. Once, he knew, he would have investigated further, but now he hurried on.

His file was big and clunky, mostly in handwriting, mostly the same handwriting, blue ink on cheap paper, or lined paper torn from notebooks, or napkins. Once, in lipstick. Half of it made no sense to Simon.

"Dugan says will search further. Old. -F"

"12791/240148/05"

Long cramped pages full of shorthand.

He knelt in the dust, going over page after page of notes and missives.

"S asks why this is important. It is important because there is a reason I began, and I cannot allow myself to forget it."

In two different handwritings: "go run POTION? in third shed from south KEEP THIS IF NOT YOU WILL FORGET spell? YES. ARMIN ZOLA german? NAZI thank you BE CAREFUL yes go"

" ~~Merlin Maskelyne Weisz Cooke Le Fay~~..."

At the bottom of it all was a thin folder, a basic personnel file stapled together at one corner.

"Name: Snow, Simon Oliver

Date of Birth: January 12th, 1926

Place of Birth: St. Jerome Private Hospital, Kent, England

Mother: Egilhard, Rosamund May, nee Snow

Father: Egilhard, Herman Abraham

There was more, notes about the orphanage and his grades and everything that had happened during his first nineteen years of life. The last page was signed "P. Carter" in the same handwriting as most of the file, along with a scribble and a flourish.

Next to "Father" was written, in writing so small that Simon had to squint, "Mage of Britain. Trained Simon Snow. What kind of father-" and then a blot and a hole in the paper.

Simon held the file in his hands for a long time. It rustled and caught shadows in the spell-light, the only way a watcher would have known he was upset.

Finally, Simon packed the file up again and set it in place. Then he buried his head in his hands.

Agatha found him like that, shaking silently in the semi dark, dust and tears streaking his face with grime. She sat down next to him, settling silently and waiting for him to stop crying. When he did, she spoke.

"I would have told you, you know."

Simon jumped and hurriedly swiped at his face.

"I thought you didn't want to know," Agatha continued. "Where did you think the inheritance came from?"

Simon shook his head. "Didn't think."

"No," Agatha said. She touched his arm, carefully, an offer of comfort.

Simon smiled at her, shaky and small, and got to his feet. "It's stupid. It was so long ago."

"No, it wasn't," Agatha said, standing up. "It was last year."

"Everyone keeps telling me it's 2015," Simon said.

"Yeah, well, everyone's a berk," Agatha said. "Come on, let's go get shawarma."

\-- - --

**1940**

It was quiet, and dark, and the boys were lying in bed, staring at each other in the dark. Not in the same bed, not yet, but no less close for it. Sex isn't everything.

"What would you do, if you could do anything?" Simon whispered. In the dark and silence, in the small room, it carried.

"I'd fly," Baz said. "For real."

"Cheat. That's my thing."

"You can come. We could both go. Leave. Run away."

"I can't," Simon said, guilt overcoming even fantasy.

Baz sighed. "Guess not."

\-- - --

**1936**

"Pure of heart and power bright, 'fore the dullness and the blight,

"Of empty shell from ages gone, never choosing right nor wrong

"Knowing not but wanting all, needing no magic for its thrall

"Falling when love o'ercomes fear, at the feet of mage's heir."

Simon made a face, considering. "The rhythm's all off."

Baz snickered. "It's your prophecy."

"Didn't write it, did I."

Baz leaned back against the tree trunk, kicking his feet in the air. "Guess not."

\-- - --

**1940**

Baz turned onto his back in the dark. "If you could do anything, what would you do?"

"Save the world," Simon mumbled, already half asleep.

Both of them lied. Later, Baz would sneak out into the forest, and come back bloody.

\-- - --

"Two shawarmas, please," Agatha said to the mustachioed man behind the counter. "Hummus, pickled cabbage, tahini, chips, pickles, chopped salad in both, skhug in one." She gave Simon a "well?" look. "Cough up."

Simon rolled his eyes, but pulled out his wallet anyways.

The shawarma was very good, and very big. Simon ate all of his and finished off Agatha's and sat groaning on the park bench they'd claimed.

"Come on, lazy bum," Agatha said. "Let's go."

"'M not lazy," Simon groaned. "I save people."

"So do I. That's just the job."

"I run," Simon said defensively.

"Really," Agatha said, grinning down at him. "Do tell."

**Author's Note:**

> Title of the fic from "The Hollow Men" by T. S. Elliot. Quotes from:  
> Not with a bang, but with a whimper- "The Hollow Men"  
> Simon's light spell- "Il Penseroso" by John Milton  
> This is Simon's bedroom. Promise I'm not promoting IKEA: http://www.ikea.com/us/en/catalog/categories/departments/bedroom/tools/bedroom_rooms_ideas/visual/201311_bers09a/


End file.
